


Nothing New

by halfmast



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:04:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmast/pseuds/halfmast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mandy comes home happy—that never lasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing New

**Author's Note:**

> Post 3x06, so it refers to those events (mentions of abuse).

 

 

 

 

Mandy’s in a good mood when she walks into her house ( _Lip’s voice and his eyes and the way his fingers dig into her skin buzzing bright inside her_ ); and that alone should have had her bracing herself—that shit drew trouble to her house like a goddamn magnet.

 

The living room’s a disaster area like usual, but the house quiet; so quiet she’s surprised to see Mickey in the kitchen, at the table, his back to her. She lifts her eyebrows, “When you say you want the house, you really mean it, huh?” She jokes, smiling a little and crossing to the refrigerator. “You been home this whole time?”

 

She’s got a beer in her hand when she turns around to face him—and it nearly slips through her fingers when she gets a look at him. 

 

“Jesus fuck, Mickey,” she hisses, moving towards him automatically; the beer landing with a thunk on the table as she slides into the chair next to him, “What the hell happened?”

 

He doesn’t answer her, doesn’t even look up, and she takes in the mess laid out on the table in front of him; it’s an unassembled gun, the pieces set out in front of him, a cloth in his hands as he wipes each one down.

 

“ _Mickey,_ ” she says, scowling at him when his gaze stays fixed on the gun. He looks like someone went to town on his face—maybe with that same gun; the thought makes her jaw clench. She reaches a hand out towards his face, “What happ - ?”

 

He jerks back in the chair before she can even finish the question, an elbow coming up defensively, “Don’t,” he says roughly, his gaze flying to her face, “Don’t touch me.”

 

“Jesus,” she snaps at him, dropping her hand, “Cool your tits.” She scowls again, staring at him hard—the dark bruises and the split lip, “You wanna tell me what the fuck happened?” And that bright buzz inside her is different now, vicious, “Who did this?”

 

Mickey’s eyes drop back to the gun and he starts assembling it now. He doesn’t give her a name; doesn’t tell her to fuck off.

 

“Mic - ”

 

“Dad’s home.”

 

The words are flat, even, and just like that, that buzz under her skin goes still, muted.

 

“He pistol-whipped you.” She states, that’s what this is, and after a beat she adds roughly, “What’d you fuck up?” There’s gotta be reason; you find one even if there isn’t.

 

His eyes flicker to her face for a beat, there’s blood in one of them, the other one swelling, both blackened, bruised. He’s got a concussion for sure, but that’s nothing new to any of them.

 

For a second it looks like he’s going to say something to her.

 

But then, “You fucking finished yet?” Terry’s voice slices into the quiet of kitchen.

 

Mandy startles in her chair; both of them flinching. 

 

“And where the _fuck_ were _you_ last night?” He asks her accusingly, his eyes hot on Mandy’s face.

 

“Dad - ” Mickey starts.

 

“Shut your goddamn mouth, boy.”

 

Mickey’s mouth snaps shut; and he doesn’t say anything to that. It makes Mandy nervous, that reaction, the way his gaze goes back to the gun, back to re-assembling it; his movements slow and deliberate and the slightest tremor to his hands that Mandy tells herself she doesn’t see.

 

Terry’s standing in the doorway now and she lifts her gaze to him, glares at their Dad, ignoring the way her heart’s racing, “I was _out_ ,” she says sharply, getting to her feet and then motioning towards Mickey, “What the _fuck_ is this about?” She demands; because _holy fuck_ didn’t their Dad have enough fucking people to beat the shit of for no reason without having to bring it home too?

 

“ _Excuse me_ ” he says, his voice dangerously low. He takes a step towards her, menacing, “He’s my goddamn kid. I need a fuckin’ reason now to pistol whip the little fucker?”

 

The answer rises up to her mouth immediately, fiercely—yes.

 

But it sticks on her tongue; heavy and fragile. She’s not fucking afraid of _anyone_ , but she’s not stupid either—she’s seen that look on her father’s face before ( _red_ flashes in her vision abruptly, sirens and screaming and so much red).

 

She presses her lips together tightly, feeling almost dizzy suddenly.

 

“Dad,” Mickey’s standing now too, sensing it too.

 

“How about instead of you asking shithead questions that ain’t anything to ya,” Terry says, still focused on Mandy for the moment, “You earn your fucking keep and make something to eat in this goddamn disaster you call a kitchen.”

 

Mandy grits her teeth, hands clenching into fists for a long moment. 

 

In the end though all she says is, “It’s not _my_ goddamn disaster, I can’t fucking clean up after everybody all the fucking time - ” she shoves past him towards the refrigerator, breaking eye contact, loosening the tension with razor-sharp words.

 

She asks about Iggy, Joey, _where the fuck are they, these are their fucking bowls I’m washing_ and Mandy’s the only that’s ever been able to slip around their father’s temper like that, with harsh words and annoyed glares (one of many survival skills she’d learned from their Mother).

 

Mickey turns away too when it’s quiet, dropping back into the chair, finishing with the gun. Clean. All the _faggot blood_ off of it.

 

“That’s enough,” Terry barks suddenly, snatching the weapon out of Mickey’s hand and tossing it across the table.

 

Mandy turns around in time to see him grab Mickey’s arm then, surprising them both.

 

“Dad - ” she starts, mind racing because if he was going to hit him agai -

 

But Terry’s already hauling Mickey up off the chair, growling, “The fuck outta my sight,” at him and swinging him around into the hall, driving him towards his bedroom door with a grip to his arm and the back of his neck, “Lookin’ at you’s making me sick.”

 

And Mickey goes, leaves her out there with him, shutting the door behind him firmly without another word.

 

She stares after him, worrying her bottom lip for a beat between her teeth.

 

“And you,” Terry’s hand clamps around her arm now, “Finish the fucking food, would ya? Jesus.”

 

She bristles, shrugging away, “Get off me,” she spits back, “I got it,” she glares at him. “Fuck off.”

 

“Wanna watch your fuckin’ mouth,” he points at her.

 

“You want your goddamn dinner or not?” She demands.

 

He glares at her for another beat before muttering something under his breath, moving into the living room, leaving her alone in the kitchen. All the breath leaves her on a rush when he’s out of sight- _fuck him_ -her lips pressing together tightly.

 

She gets a knife out after a long beat of just breathing, stares at it intently for another moment before she gets to work on the potatoes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Don’t come in here.”

 

“Mickey,” she sighs, rolling her eyes, not bothering to knock again, just opening the door a crack.

 

“Stay the fuck out, Mandy,” he says thickly.

 

“It’s just ice, fuckface, and water. And aspirin,” she tells him, moving inside anyway.

 

“ _Man_ dy,” he says emphatically, almost a pout, sounding exhausted all of a sudden.

 

The room is dark, shades drawn, but she can see him sitting on the floor, with his back against the bed.

 

“You got something against mattresses all of a sudden?” She asks, lowering herself next to him.

 

He shakes his head, side to side, wincing a little as he does, but he doesn’t say anything.

 

It’s quiet now; with Terry passed out on the couch. Nobody else home. She turns her head, studying Mickey’s face.

 

“He did a fucking number on you,” she murmurs quietly, reaching a hand out to touch his chin lightly.

 

He winces again, leaning away when her fingers brush his skin, “Don’t.”

 

“Stop being a fuckin’ baby,” she retorts, dropping the icepack on his lap.

 

“Get the fuck outta my room then.”

 

There’s no real heat in either of their words though, neither of them paying much attention to the words. She rolls her eyes, sighs, “Here,” and puts the aspirin in his hand, nudging the cup of water against his hand. 

 

“Sometime today, dickhead,” she snaps at him when he doesn’t move to take it.

 

“Just get the fuck out,” he says tiredly, but then drops the pills into his mouth and follows it up with with the water. It’s cold in his mouth, going down his throat, in the pit of stomach—too cold. He drinks all of it, can’t make himself stop swallowing even though it makes him shudder a little, makes shivery and uncomfortable, and when he lowers the cup, sets it on the floor; it roils around in his stomach, icy. 

 

He’s going to throw up; he knows it a second before she does. He scrambles up off the floor before her, staggering towards the bathroom, and dropping onto his knees.

 

“Jesus,” Mandy whispers, following more slowly, rubbing at her face a little.

 

She stops in doorway, blowing out a breath, “Okay, okay,” she says quietly, because he’s still gagging, looks like he can’t stop; and she doesn’t know what to do, if she should leave or stay or _what_? 

 

She swallows hard, crouching down carefully an arms distance away from him, touching a hand lightly to his back.

 

“Don’t, _don’t_.” He pivots a little, shrugging her off, shoving her arm away.

 

“Fuck, okay, jesus... just,” she stands back up, jittery, anxious, “Stop puking,” she frowns at him.

 

“Get _out_ ,” he snaps at her.

 

And her frown darkens into a glare, “Asshole. I’m trying to _help_ you.”

 

“Fuck _off_.”

 

“Fuck _you_ ,” she snaps back at him, hurt all of a sudden because she really was just trying to - 

 

She glares at him darkly for another moment and then whirls around and storms through his room, slamming the door shut behind her when she leaves. 

She stomps her way into the kitchen, grabbing a beer, and then shoving the back-door open into the yard, taking a deep breath and then getting a cigarette out. She's calmer by the time she's ready to snuff it out; her father's an asshole and Mickey's an idiot—nothing new.

 

 

 

.the end.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> In 3x07 Mandy says that Mickey'll be on his feet soon and also that you don't need a reason and... those two things spawned this? And also I have a lot of feelings about the their hug in season 2 and how they’re the youngest in that house. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. :)


End file.
